1905 - 1944
by ellymelly
Summary: These are the missing years and stories between Love in the Time of Science and People of the Sand. They are self contained with a variety of different characters and pairings which can be read without any reference to the longer fics.
1. Introduction

**1905 - 1944**

by ellymelly

These are the missing years and stories between _Love in the Time of Science_ and _People of the Sand_. They are appear as self contained stories with a variety of different characters and pairings and can be read without any reference to the longer fics.

* * *

**BLACK FEATHERS, GOLDEN WING**

****Year: 1905

Characters: James Watson, Sherlock Holmes

Summary: James and Sherlock travel to India in search of a mythical bird with connections to the Fire Elementals.

Rated: T

Genre: Action/Adventure


	2. Black Feathers, Golden Wing (1)

**BLACK FEATHERS, GOLDEN WING**

**( 1905 – SUMMER )**

India rushed by the gap where a window was meant to sit. James leaned into the roar of wind keeping pace with the train, hand tightly curled around the safety bar. He let the world coat him in dust and rain, indulging in its sickening heat which, for the last week, made the whole world drip.

The jungle thickened, twisting into a tunnel that inched closer as every mile steamed by. It threatened to consume their train which served as the only hint of civilisation. Wherever the jungle ended it was replaced by cliffs and banks of black rock. Stretches of horizon peaked out to reveal mountains thrust up in walls against the sky. It was an ancient place of violence covered by a fragile layer of peace.

Sherlock Holmes shared no such desire to immerse himself in the world.

"You shall lose a head like that, Doctor Watson," the consulting detective remarked, straightening his teacup which seemed insistent on shuffling ever closer to the table's edge. The train continued to rock backward and forward in a war between its wheels and the track. "Tedious way to travel. Last time I was on a train, the entirely of its passengers murdered one of the other patrons. Did I ever tell you about -"

"Yes... a thousand times," James fell back into his seat, wet hair plastered to his forehead. It made him look a decade younger if not a little wild. During their six weeks at sea he had let his beard grow into a thick bush. James was certain he now knew all of Mr. Holme's cases by heart and in the most minute detail. "Unless you have designs on my life, please can we stick to the case at hand?"

Sherlock looked quite put out. In his opinion, this whole expedition was entirely lacking of that crucial component – _a case _and he wished that his companion would stop referring to it as such.

"There has been no murder," he protested, hunting out another cube of sugar for his tea.

"Dozens of murders -"

"-eight is not _'dozens'_." The crystal cube plopped into the tea and fizzed.

"Eight is still more than your precious Nile adventure." James twitched. He could hear the sugar being ground into the fine bone china by Sherlock's indelicate spoon. The man did not possess a hint of subtlety.

"My dear Mr Watson, they are brutal accidents at best, foolish misadventure more likely. Murder is something of an entirely different nature. Druitt could teach you a thing or two about the difference."

"Pass..." How the man sat there in no less than four layers of coats and shirts was beyond all normal lines of reason. The heat was unbearable, even in the comfort of their second class carriage. James was quite a different picture. His loose cotton shirt was open to the waist, tucked into grey linen trousers that were irrevocably crushed from days of travel. He'd rolled them to his knees in a fashion that made Sherlock sneer at them every hour or so.

"We do not fill newspapers, fear to tread the streets or obsess over _accidents_. We cry and forget them. It is only the truly evil acts that are burned into our minds. John... he captivated a nation."

"With _fear_," James clarified.

"It doesn't matter what with... He held them in the palm of his hand. That is power – and unravelling such power is the greatest of accomplishments. It is a _hunt_."

"And what am I, your hound?"

Sherlock scoffed.

James's deep eyes flicked up, very nearly brooding. "You dragged _me _here," James reminded him. "Let's not be indelicate as to why. We're chasing a two thousand year old myth – at the wrong end of the continent, I might add."

James was unsettled by the soft laughter spilling from the other man's lips.

"I am here, Dr Watson," he explained, taking another sip of tea while inspecting the scones, "because people are dying and no-one knows why."

The train took them as far as the village. It was a hike from there.

Their team of twelve men, half as many women, a few children and a lumbering elephant were near indistinguishable against the forest. James and Sherlock tagged onto the back of the supply group which regularly serviced several tea plantations in the mountains.

James stumbled over the ground, losing his footing in the leaf litter. He was unsteady because his head was always tilted up toward the sky. The trees that towered overhead were the tallest he had ever seen. It was colder up here. Mist was rising with them, sitting on their waists. Everything in this world was _abnormal – _ from the elephant breaking through the undergrowth in front, ridden by one of the workers to the tinniest insect trying to drill into his skin – this place was incredible.

"Oh Helen would love this," James whispered. He had not heard anyone raise their voice above a whisper since they'd left the train. "Only a fraction of the world has been recorded – a _tiny_ fraction," he marvelled.

"A large portion of that tiny fraction is of the opinion you'd make an excellent snack."

"Holmes, don't ruin this for me."

Sherlock's eyes alternated between his feet and the faces of the convoy. He never missed a step as he hunted for fear on their tanned faces.

"The two gentleman carrying sacks of rice are stealing," Sherlock observed casually, falling into step with James. "An excellent scam. Every time we stop they transfer a little rice into the children's bags and add a few small river stones to keep the weight even."

"Sherlock..." James warned, holding the man's wiry wrist before he could approach them. "It's not our place to say anything – indeed – neither of us speak the language well enough to communicate beyond embarrassing hand – _Sherlock..._" James could only sigh as Sherlock slipped free, hunting over to the thieves.

He cased them for a while – stalking them like a predator might shadow its prey.

James muttered to himself, strategically distancing himself from what was likely going to be a nasty display. Distracted by an unusual bend in the heavy branches of a tree, James diverted toward the edge of the track, partly vanishing into the foliage. He could hear the rest of the party quite clearly and didn't worry as the rest of the forest bared down onto him, enveloping him in its sweet shade.

A low, wide, stunted tree with three load-bearing forks shuddered as creatures ran about inside its foliage. James recognised the happy chatter of monkeys and approached. All of his dealings thus far with monkeys had involved them scampering off with buttons from his suit and a rather valuable pocket watch, all of which was no doubt passed on to their masters.

These monkeys had no masters. They were wild with soft grey and blond fur and pink faces. Each had whiskers like a cat and a thin, white moustache over their upper lip. Their noses were drawn out and flat but their eyes more than made up for it, enormous and green, rimmed by black.

One of them, a male, climbed up onto a branch in full view of Watson. The monkey sat down and appeared to consider his genetic cousin, his tail curling around the branch. James was fascinated by the monkey's hands – near perfect copies of his own. The resemblance sent a shiver through his body.

"I see you there," he whispered to the creature.

The monkey continued to stare, neither afraid nor curious enough to approach. Their mutual intrigue was disturbed by another monkey's shriek. It fell from the tree, landing on the leaf litter amidst howls. The creature rolled around, clutching at a shoulder that no longer bared an arm. Something had torn it free – not long ago.

"Holy..." James stumbled back and bounced off a large, Indian man's chest.

A gunshot ended the wails. Another man emerged, rifle in hand which he slowly lowered. The monkeys fled, scampering away into the jungle.

"Seen three this week past," the ranger explained, his English accented but smooth. The side of his neck was burned, the pale skin shrivelled and healed long ago. "Snakes too, with spines half-ripped from their bodies. Something nasty is into the wildlife of late. If I were you, Englishman, I'd not wander so far from the group."

James managed a nod, stumbling away form the twitching body of the monkey.

The terrain steepened, weaving through a mountain pass that hugged a series of cliffs. The elephants struggled, lumbering along with the children asleep on their backs. Down again, they came upon fresh water streams riddled with fish. Already they could see wild camellia trees dotting the landscape and beyond this the hills were a deep, vibrant green. Tea plantations.

Sherlock fell back into step beside Watson.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

Sherlock smirked back. "Always so suspicious."

"It comes from spending too much time in your company," he pointed out. "I know what happens when you lack a chaperone."

"Hearsay, my dear Watson. Nothing more."

They traversed a rotten rope bridge scant feet above the water whilst the elephants and their keepers cut directly through the river. Watson kept a tight grip of the ancient rope, disturbed by its creaks of displeasure.

"_French_," James nodded over at the ranger, taking point ahead of them. The strong yet lean man had already reached the jungle on the other side, pacing in front of it while the others made their crossing.

"James, we've been with the man several day's hike and you've only now noticed that he's _French_?"

"It's the first time I've heard him speak," James muttered hurriedly. His feet were sliding over the rotting boards and the bridge shuddered and swayed, groaning. "Do you think he's one of the private contractors we were reading about? Foreign protection hired by the tea masters to protect their supply routes?"

"Have you ever seen a security detail engage with their surrounds as keenly as our _frog_?" Sherlock pointed out. Their ranger was sharp, inspecting every detail of the jungle too intently for someone hunting thieves. "He's turned a blind eye to the corruption inside the caravan and is unperturbed by the small band of miscreants tracking us."

"The _what_?" James hissed in alarm.

"Several miles back – raucous lot, not much of a threat though I'd sleep with your rucksack close."

James frowned. Holmes was a disconcerting gentleman. "I'm not sure I like the idea of being followed by – _oh Holmes_," James sighed, as Sherlock withdrew a long walking cane from his pack, "I thought you left that in London. Do you know how ridiculous you look with that thing?"

"I look ever so slightly crippled – which is quite the point."

"For the benefit of our friends at the tea establishment, I presume." Sherlock nodded. "You know, Sherlock, this might turn out to be a run of the mill animal attack – no foul play to speak of."

"James, in all my years I have never happened upon a place devoid of mischief."

"_'cause it follows you around..."_ James hissed, slipping on the muddy bank as he departed the bridge. Sherlock merely stabbed the sludge with his cane and alighted gracefully. _Bastard._


	3. Black Feathers, Golden Wing (2)

"By all the gods in the Pantheon..." James exhaled. He had emerged on the precipice of a mountain – one of many circling the nest of lower, fertile hills blanketed by thick isles of tea. Their green was almost lurid, quivering between shades in the frigid air. There was snow at James's feet, the light covering dusting the black edges of the tallest mountains. Beyond that was blue – endless, untainted sky.

"Is it everything you had hoped for?" Sherlock asked, stabbing his cane into the ground. He took off his gloves, hanging them on a tree to dry out. "The tradesmen of the East spun masterful fantasies about these plantations to kings and queens – paradises in the sky."

"It's colder than I'd imagined paradise," James turned to Holmes, determined not to give into his child-like glee.

"And so it is – but the tea likes it."

"I beg you, speak not of tea. I'd give just about anything for a pot right now."

Sherlock smirked wickedly. "Would you barter me for a cup, then?"

"Don't you go doubting it, Holmes. I'd wager your muddied hide for a sip."

* * *

It took them another day to traverse the icy paths into the hilltop plantation. The snow became mud, then dabbled briefly in stone where the winds swept the soil to the bedrock.

Yes, it was warmer but James found himself clutching his arms close, watching the world around him with a sharp air of suspicion. There was something he didn't like about it. Creatures cried out in sheer, piercing shrieks and then were silenced. Wind gusts kicked up from nowhere, tearing over the expedition before vanishing to stillness. The hours walking through the thick tea crop had been the most surreal, with the plants hissing with movement – _alive_ as though the great mass of green was a single entity smothering the landscape.

Waist deep, James look up to the mountains. A pair of black shadows circled near one of the peaks. Eagles. The tips of their wings were angled against the wind, tails spread and heads tilted down, watching the world beneath.

The teas house itself emerged from the landscape as though it had grown from the forest. It was three full stories of rich, ancient wood fashioned into an opulent feast of self indulgent relics, souvenirs and beautiful detail. Everyone in their party except for the Frenchman diverted off into a larger but less impressive shed to deposit their goods and find work amongst the tea pickers.

"This way, the manager is waiting for you," said the Frenchman in a thick accent. He was mostly a collection of muscle and bone, stalking rather than walking through the huge double doors so heavy they were held open by two terrifying marble statues. The grisly stone gods snarled at guests, baring demonic teeth.

James had been expecting a plump, well dressed English lord to greet them but instead a dishevelled Indian man with rich dark skin and long black hair tied roughly in a ponytail waved them through into a small office.

There was a fire roaring in the corner but for all its effort, only the first few feet of the office felt any warmth. James kept his coat on, perching in one of the Gothic chairs, Sherlock in the other – his bony hands curled around the edges of the chair like a vampire on his throne. Sherlock was never one to be perturbed by a house.

"_Lovely_, nice nook in the world," Sherlock started, taking in every tiny detail. It was never clear whether he meant to speak these sentiments aloud – or indeed if he was aware that he had company.

"Mr Holmes, I presume?" the estate manager guessed.

Holmes went to make a nasty quip but James interrupted. "Yes and I'm Dr James Watson. We've come a long way to see you."

"Yes, yes – but – you should go back now." The manager was dwarfed by the desk he sat behind and its throne-like, red velvet chair. This office was oddly claustrophobic compared to the enormous house with no windows and only one door. The walls were all structural stone indeed, Sherlock had already determined that it was a 'safe' room, a place to make a last stand if the world fell around them. Smart and refreshingly practical.

"Go – go back?" James stammered, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "We – ah, we just came a _very_ long way to see you. Both my colleague and I have many skills to – "

"Five more," the manager whispered. "We found their remains in the field on Tuesday. Three men and two of the women were attacked and torn apart. It is no murderer, Dr Holmes, it is a _curse_ and the world of man cannot fight dark spirits. Everyone is preparing to leave."

Sherlock was smiling, rather inappropriately if James was honest. A scheme was building in his head no – a _suspicion._

"Curses are my favourite," he insisted. "I presume you still have a few weeks left of trade given the crop is mid-harvest. Mind if we stick around? Your workers may intend to leave but they have shown no sign of departing while the tea is in bud."

The manager was unsettled, running his hands nervously along the edge of the grand table, picking at its splinters. "There is a party going back to the village a week from now. You may stay until then."

"Excellent!" Sherlock stood, rubbing his hands together before pausing. "The owner, annoying Brit about 'so' high, have you seen him?"

"Dr Holmes," the manager replied solemnly, not liking the Dr's mockery of the dead. "He has not been seen for many months. He's dead."

"Missing – not dead. Dead is a corpse with a toe-tag. Come along, Watson, we have malevolent spirits to chase."

* * *

They were given rooms on the top floor, Eastern corner of the building over looking formidable mountain range. A fresh dusting of snow made them glisten pink and gold while the tea valley around them remained a stark, surreal green.

There were dozens of pickers milling through the rows, carefully selecting the tiny, fresh sprigs of Camellia, tossing them in cylindrical baskets stretching down their backs. It was slow work that could not be mechanised for all the wonder of the industrial era. Machines couldn't decide between the slender, young sprigs and rough vegetation. It required a mind – a human hand. It was something which Sherlock could appreciate.

"How many is that now – thirteen, _fifteen_ if you count the rumour of two children missing from the village." James penned notes in his journal. He was meticulous to a fault. Holmes didn't need such rudimentary tools – the entire puzzle fit neatly into his brain. "Sherlock – what in heaven's name are you doing?"

Sherlock was leaning out the window, hanging onto the old wooden frame as he inspected the quality of the exterior walls and whether or not they were easily scaled. "Nothing, nothing..." he muttered, pulling himself back into the room.

"And close the window, it's bloody freezing."

He did. Sherlock started circling the room, picking out a route to wear into the Persian rug. He was like a bee trapped in dance patterns, humming around.

"Penny for your thoughts?" said James, inspecting a silver tray with a cluster of crystal decanters on it.

"If you had to bet your life on an answer right now – what would be your guess?"

James hated these games. Sherlock was an almighty, fat Amazonian leech feeding off the suspicions of others. He absorbed every thought, every paranoid suspicion and irrelevant fact and somehow drew out of this chaos an answer.

"The manager, obviously," he replied. "With the owner of the house gone, presumed murdered and a rather colourful story involving curses and demons, you could write the estate off as a failure, buy it cheap between one or two investors and then bring the production back up to speed. The infrastructure is already here. It's tidy and remarkably simple. I have seen it pulled several times in Africa."

Sherlock found James a riveting form of entertainment. "It is no surprise that the world is shaped by paranoia and stupidity."

"I take it you don't agree with my assessment?" James frowned. Tesla had nothing on Holmes when it came to impertinence. "Right – _okay. _I don't know why I bother indulging you in this one-way, idea sharing _thing._ You do understand sharing?"

"A system of mutual transmission of useful data – a perfectly sound concept in which I choose not to engage." Sherlock's tone was so flat it was impossible to tell if you were being openly mocked or politely informed of your error.

James decided to pour himself a glass or two of _port_ and mull over the day from the comfort of the couch.

* * *

The next morning, they found the house empty.

"Where the devil did they all go?" James demanded, buttoning up his vest, rolling up his lace-edged sleeves.

It was nearly eight o-clock and the house should have been alive with activity yet the manor was devoid of everything except the heavy footsteps of James trudging his way toward the front door.

"Sherlock – what the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Breakfast..." he replied, deviating to the room opposite where breakfast had been laid out earlier but left untouched. Sherlock lathered jam and butter on cold toast.

"For – god's sake..." James reluctantly joined him at the table, folding his arms.

"What's the hurray?" Sherlock shrugged, pouring himself some tea. "In all probability we have another murder in a tea field. Our lovely hosts will contaminate the crime scene for a while longer. No point rushing about when there's cake and tea."

James narrowed his eyes. "You're betting the murderer will reveal himself in his attempt to conceal the crime..."

Eventually, James did manage to drag Holmes out of the door. It was nearly noon, a warm patch of sunlight shedding an unnatural brightness to the world.

"Over here," Sherlock led the way, swatting at the tea with his cane as they walked. There were voices up ahead – people arguing, a woman crying and the sound of ropes straining against rock.

This scene, at least, was no murder.

The dense field of tea ended abruptly where a landslide from the cliff above had gouged its way through, flattening the crop into foot-high stalks poking out from a carpet of leaves. It stretched on for many yards until it ended with the boulders, black and evil, laying amid the deluge.

Dozens of thick rope strained around the girth of these immense rocks. Everyone on the plantation was clutching at one of them, heaving against the weight. Slowly, they were dragging it off a crushed body. The wailing woman was the manager's wife, distraught at her husband's body smeared into pieces.

"It appears your theory has been crushed, Dr Watson," Sherlock reclined against the black cliff face.


End file.
